


brother

by allforsammy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Big Brother Dean, Brother Feels, Codependency, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Weechesters, gencest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allforsammy/pseuds/allforsammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is Sam's brother. That's what matters. Written for Brandon's (deanwuvzhugz) prompt: <i>anything with Weechesters (Sam 7, Dean 11)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	brother

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Plotless schmoopy gencest h/c-fest with a lot, and I mean _a lot_ of brother touching, and no concept of personal space whatsoever.

__**brother ·/’brəT͟Hər/  
(noun) a man or boy in relation to other sons and daughters of his parents**

Sam’s not stupid. He’s seen how they look at him, like he’s easy prey and the juiciest snack they’ve ever laid eyes on. He’s seen the sneers and hungry eyes, he’s heard the mocking and threats – he’s not stupid. But a second-grader can’t be seen hanging off the coattails of his big brother, even if said big brother doesn’t mind and it’s all he wants to do when he’s walking through the hallway. Sam’s not stupid – he’s been through five schools since his first year, and he already knows where to hide, which stairs not to take, but he’s running late for his mathematics class, and the teacher has already decided he’s a problem student.

So as it turns out, Sam _is_ stupid. He’s very, _very_ stupid and with fists pummelling his body, _stupid_ is the only word going through in his mind apart from _Dean_ – who is, as he should be, in class and not going to come running even if he calls for him. He isn’t entirely helpless – giving a couple of them black eyes and sore shins – but five on one aren’t fair odds, especially when five are fifth-graders and one is a second-grader who, according to the school nurse, is “small for his age”. They’re throwing what they think are slurs at him, _big brother’s boy, weird, freak, disgusting_.

At least they aren’t sophisticated enough to force him to beg, because if they did, they’d all be there for the rest of the day till someone found them. As it is, he stumbles into the classroom ten minutes late sporting a bruise on his cheek and a cut on his lip – and other bruises that he isn’t planning to let anyone see. Mr Hunter glares at him disapprovingly and makes him answer questions every five minutes, but by that point Sam just wants his brother too badly to even give a damn at all.

\--

Dean is standing at the far corner of the tiny school field when Sam gets out of the school building, and one look at him is enough to send Sam careening into Dean’s side, lifting his hands to clutch at the fabric of the jacket Dean’s wearing. He feels Dean’s surprise like a jolt, and then Dean’s kneeling on the muddy ground, trying to get a good look at Sam.  
  
Fury so cold Sam nearly shivers passes over Dean’s face when he sees the marks on Sam’s face, but Dean’s arm is still warm under his fingers, and his eyes are worried as he whispers, “Who did this to you?”  
  
Sam shakes his head, not bothering to speak, just takes a step forward to lean into Dean – and he should be balking at how it always comes to this, how Dean can always reduce him to a two-year-old, wordless and broken open, bitchface and independence forgotten, just _Dean Dean Dean_ in his mind – but Dean is warm and enveloping him and shushing him, and he can’t bring himself to muster half an ounce of irritation at the coddling.  
  
He just wants to go home – go back to that old ratty apartment that Dean tried to make into a home, only he didn’t even need to try at all – just wants to hide inside Dean, big and warm and safe.  
  
“Alright, we’re going home now, kiddo,” Dean says, and his voice isn’t anything anyone at school has ever heard – not the cocky, smartass, smirking voice, but Sam’s – soft and so steeped completely in affection that it makes his eyes burn and his heart clench. Then quieter, as they begin to walk, Dean’s arm still around him keeping him securely plastered to his side, not meant for his ears – “Gonna take care of you, Sammy.”  
  
There’s rain pouring down on them, soaking them both wet by the time they’re back at the motel – sharp, February rain – but Dean doesn’t let go, doesn’t even ease up on the pressure crushing Sam to himself, and even shaking he doesn’t feel the least bit cold.  
  
The raindrops patter on the galvanised roof above them, and this isn’t supposed to be different from any other rainy day, but there’s something in the air, something solemn and real and almost tangible – something that’s more than Sam and more than Dean, but maybe sums up to SamandDean, like they’ve never been and always were.  
  
Sam stands in the doorway, just inside, as Dean locks up and checks the salt line. Dean’s peeling the jacket off of Sam and then himself, steering them both to the bed, cranking up the heat. Then his hands are framing Sam’s face, thumbs passing gently over the swollen skin around his eyes. Sam watches as Dean cleans up the cut on his lip gingerly, and then checks the bruises on his back.  
  
They shower quickly, sharing the limited hot spray between them, efficient as only years of practice can yield.  
  
Sam falls asleep snuggled up to Dean, to the lullaby of Dean’s breathing and the rhythm of Dean’s chest rising and falling against his back, to his big brother’s hand soft in his hair and the amulet a hard needed comfort on his spine.  
  
\--  
  
He wakes up to the smell of tomato rice soup wafting into the bedroom, and pads over to the kitchenette, ignoring the soreness in his back.  
  
“Up just in time for dinner,” Dean says, grinning at him. “How’s the back?”  
  
Sam slides into the chair and starts to pull it in towards the table, but Dean’s already pushing it in. “It’s okay.”  
  
Dean smirks a little, shakes his head. “I’ll believe it when you aren’t wincing like an old man just from walking,” he says, and the concern in his eyes belie the joking tone.

“I’m gonna be fine,” Sam insists, then grins up at Dean, picking up his spoon. “Got my big brother, right?”  
  
Dean roll his eyes, unable to hide the pleased smirk. “Careful, it’s hot.” Then – “You know you’re gonna have to tell me what happened, right? Those assholes aren’t getting away with this.”  
  
And there is it. The one thing that would have turned his appetite completely off if he weren’t so pleasantly sluggish from his nap. “You can’t always take care of my problems for me, Dean. You’re not always going to be there – next year you won’t even be in the same school anymore.” He looks up, tries his brightest smile and hopes it doesn’t look as much like a grimace as it feels. “Hey – gotta be some good, right? Gotta grow up – ”  
  
Dean’s staring at him like he’s grown another head. “That’s what it is? All this time avoiding me at break – because you’re trying to… condition yourself for when I’m not there?”  
  
Sam grimaces for real this time. “May as well prepare for it if it’s going to happen,” he says, and thinks of Dad hunting some evil monster out there, thinks of Child Protection Services, pulling him away from Dean, away from his _home_ , away from the one good thing he’s ever had in his life. He’s heard what everyone else calls it before – calls him and Dean, calls him needing his big brother the way he does, calls Dean looking after him and feeding him, clothing him – co-dependency, unhealthy, twisted, messed-up, parentification, _emotional incest_ (the things people say when they don’t think you understand a single word).  
  
Dean’s pulled his chair out, now standing in front of him, brushing at Sam’s eyes carefully, wiping away the sudden wetness. Then he’s pulling him out of the chair and onto his lap, like when Sam was half his age and could fit in easily. “Never gonna happen, Sammy,” Dean’s saying into his ear now, soft and a little hoarse, “never gonna happen.”  
  
And maybe Dean isn’t supposed to pull his baby brother into his lap and clean his cuts and make his food – maybe _Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean_ isn’t supposed to be the only thing that runs through his mind when he’s getting beaten up by school bullies, maybe it’s supposed to be _Dad_ , or _Mom_ – but he doesn’t have a Dad the way it should be, and he hasn’t had a Mom for the longest time; all he has is a _Dean_ , who is safety and comfort and warmth and home. So if his conception of _brother_ doesn’t fit the dictionary definition, it’s all he has known and all he’s still sure of – and damned if he’s going to trade the best thing in his world for a few shallow words in a book.


End file.
